


Past Sorrow Redeeming

by VirginiaPlain64



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Manipulation, New Year's Eve, Party, Singing, Slash, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VirginiaPlain64/pseuds/VirginiaPlain64
Summary: Bertie goes to a marvelous party.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Past Sorrow Redeeming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kahvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/gifts).



> Thank you, dear recipient, for your lovely prompt. I hope you enjoy the result.
> 
> Thanks to my friends and betas. Couldn't have done it without you.

I put down the phone as gently as it was possible to do while gripped by an anger imaginable only to a perfectly reasonable man whose long-awaited plans for a perfect New Year’s Eve had been upended in course of a terse conversation with that blithely malevolent entity known as an Aunt.

Clearly this was not gently enough as Jeeves immediately appeared, even though I’d heard neither hide nor hair to announce his arrival. Perhaps he had been invisibly present through the entire ordeal. 

“That infernal woman,” I fulminated, ready to launch into a recapitulation of my grievance when I noticed that Jeeves had not come into my presence unprepared. I wasn’t sure exactly what libation he had prepared, it was too colorful to be a G&T and rather more fruitful than one of his exquisite Old Fashioneds, but Jeeves’ fine hand with a muddler and shaker hadn’t disappointed me yet and I downed the concoction in but a few swallows. 

The thing hit like a most enjoyable fur-lined ton of bricks.

“Thank you, Jeeves. That certainly touched a spot. Now what was I saying?”

“You were expressing some dissatisfaction with a certain woman, perhaps the machinations of the indefatigable Lady Worplesdon?”

I shook my head with great vigor. 

“You see Jeeves, that’s the ungodly sting of this matter. If it were Aunt Agatha, I’d fully expect her to find a way to ruin everything and perform a flamingo dance in the ashes of the joy she’d managed to burn to the ground.”

Jeeves blinked and I thought I saw him mouthing the word “flamingo.” Perhaps I’d impressed him with my colorful turn of phrase. 

“But this was a truly devastating betrayal, a scalpel in the back from the least expected materteral side of all.”  


“Surely not Mrs. Travers, sir.”

“Indeed, Jeeves. I am truly sorry to say, Mrs. Travers, or as I never thought I would have cause to say, my wretched, horrible, how could she do this to me, of all people, bloody Aunt Dahlia.” 

“I find it hard to believe that Mrs. Travers has anything other than your best interest at heart.”

“Well her heart should have thought of my best interest before deciding to invite me to a New Year’s Eve party held on the 31st of this very December. Dashed inappropriate timing if you ask me.”

“How so, if I may ask?”

“How can I bloody well come to her shindig, including what I’m told will be a completely ravishing New Year’s Eve trifle created by Anatole and a team of pastry chefs from the five top restaurants in London, an opportunity to dance the Balboa with Bobbie Wickham and the promise of some gift, which Aunt Dahlia assures me is worth more than the total allowance she managed to squeeze out of Tightwad Tommy in the past decade?”

“If I may be so bold as to inquire, Sir, how can you not?”

“That’s exactly the problem, Jeeves. The whole thing sounds absolutely topping and I’d be there with bells on, were it not for the timing.”

“Another engagement, sir?”

“Exactly, Jeeves. The most extraordinary event of the year, the be-all and end-all of year-end frivolity. Wine, no women, song and a bit of snooker, more song and quite a few martini’s and throw of the darts and yet more songs, concluding with the Old Lang Sign and Tuppy Glossop attempting to juggle the Christmas baubles while balancing an angel on his nose and singing “We Three Kings of Ornament Are.”

“I see,” Jeeves replied, nodding his head slowly, obvious taking in the gravity of the situation, “Mrs. Travers’ more than generous invitation is putting you at risk of missing the soiree being held simultaneously at the Drones Club.”

“Precisely. Good man, Jeeves. You see the problem and the cause for utmost distress.”

“Not exactly sir. While I understand the depth of your loyalty to your fellow, ahem, shall I say, Dronesmen, I believe you might be able to pass on their company on this occasion, if not in deference to Mrs. Travers, then perhaps to the promise of the trifle? No trifling thing, surely?”

“No, no, no Jeeves!” Shaking my head as fervently as I did was not doing wonders for my equipoise in conjunction with the delightful libation Jeeves had provided, but a supplementary shot of the needful would soon be forthcoming and I could risk the minor discomfort to make my point. “Have I not mentioned the renowned figure, arranger and musical genius who has deigned to impresario the performances at the party, and who has graciously tasked your employer with the opportunity to display his pianistic dexterity and vocal skills on one of the Master’s most beloved ditties?”

“That would be Mr. Noel Coward, I take it?”

“Who else?”

Jeeves nodded solemnly. While I took some comfort from his clearly agreeing with my point of view about the whole mess, I felt another wave of outrage and despair overcoming my generally peaceful and placid nature. 

“It is quite the dilemma, sir.”

“Bally well right it is. How can I let my fellow Drones down, as well as Mr. Coward, on the other hand…Aunt Dahlia, Anatole….

“A New Year’s trifle.”

“Why must New Year’s Eve and the thirty-first of December be the same day? Dashed bad planning all around if you ask me.”

“Might I inquire sir, which of Mr. Coward’s compositions are you to be performing.”

I genuinely had not intended to sing out loud, far as I was from the piano in the sitting room, but to be honest I couldn’t remember the name of the piece unless I actually did the crooning and I’m certain I never meant to catch Jeeves’ eyes at the very moment those absurdly romantic words emerged from my mouth.

_Someday I’ll find you  
Moonlight behind you  
True to the dream i am dreaming_

The moment went on rather longer than anything calling itself a moment should. 

“What shall I do Jeeves?” I asked wondering if my forlorn aspect conveyed something beyond the actual difficulty at hand.

“Leave it to me, sir.” 

The expected assurance allowed me to put the whole matter out of my head, and shortly thereafter I was tucking into my afternoon repast, which struck as a bit heavy on the gizzards, but perhaps suitable to the chill weather and whiteness that was engulfing London in the faux calm of post-Yule before the storm of the true holiday that was to be New Year’s Eve.

The next five days passed by pleasantly as I diligently practiced the cadenzas and codas and whatnot required to play my part at the Drone’s club extravaganza for at least one hour a day, although that hour was often curtailed by a call from Aunt Dahlia confirming yet again, that yes I would be at _her_ soiree to greet the new year and most certainly not cavorting with the likes of “Spink-Bottle” at some competing wing-ding just because I’d been offered an opportunity to show off my all-together lack luster skills at the keyboard. A more suspicious soul than myself might be wont to wonder if my plans to be elsewhere than Brinkley Hall at the stroke of midnight had already been revealed.

Finally, the day to precede the night in question arrived. The weather outside was deemed to be brutally cold, although Jeeves advised that precipitation was not expected. I took this news glumly. Although I trusted Jeeves ability to maneuvre me out of perilous waters, I’d been hoarding in my heart the unspoken possibility of advising dear Aunt Dahlia that much as I was devastated to do so, it would be impossible to subject my Aston Martin to the appalling weather that would surely be a hazard to the well-being of anyone foolish enough to attempt the journey.

The refusal of either the gods or The God to provide me with such an effortless escape from my predicament was almost an argument in favor of atheism, not that I would say so out loud, lest any of my High Church forebears overhear.

Tea was a light affair; there would be a surfeit of delectable at the Drones, even if none of them would remotely match Anatole’s New Year’s Trifle. Since food was to be postponed, I felt my afternoon tipple could be brought forward. It was, after all, New Year’s Bloody Eve. In with old, out with new, or some-such like that.

“Jeeves!” I called out, somewhat surprised that he was not already at my side with a drink in hand at the exact moment the thought glimmered to my mind, so used was I to having him anticipate my every need.

He did arrive promptly, carrying both a tray containing a tumbler, festively embellished by a thin candy cane and wooden hanger redolent of cedar wood that had my tuxedo perfectly pressed ready to be worn for the New Year’s Eve festivities, the ones I had specifically wished to spend at the Drone’s club, high a mere few minutes from Berkeley Square by automobile, rather than the three or so hours it would take for the Aston Martin to reach Brinkley Court _if_ I were to attend Aunt Dahlia’s party instead. 

This perplexing juxtaposition caused me to narrow my eyebrows at Jeeves in an expression of disapproval and concern while simultaneous reacting with surprise and delight to the minty, yet mysteriously potent concoction in the glass. At that exact moment there was both an insistent and repetitive pressure on the front doorbell and the ringing of the telephone with an urgency that bespoke a frantic Aunt before I even heard her voice.

“Bertie, you must help me!” 

“Aunt Dahlia,” I said tentatively, wondering precisely what the newest tragedy to have befallen the good, if devious woman might have been.

I knew Jeeves must have gone to answer the door, but my curiosity as to who or what had arrived would have to wait until I finished attempting to calm down the quite inconsolable and somewhat incomprehensible Aunt Dahlia. I was still making what I imagined to be soothing noises when rather suddenly my comfortable environs were invaded by a small horde of gentleman and one rather stout but handsomely endowed lady. The troupe bore the signs of professional musicians in the form of their just slightly worn attire, noticeable only to the trained eye, and the more obvious evidence of large instrument cases with the words Harry Roy’s Tiger Ragamuffins embossed in somewhat tattered gold leaf on them.

The band was accompanied by Freddie Widgeon and Oofy Prosser, who were both already dressed and boutonniered for the evening festivities at the Drone’s despite the ridiculously early hour. As I observed the mayhem unfolding in the living room and listened to Aunt Dahlia’s wails of sorrow at the misfortune that had befallen her in the form of a measles outbreak incapacitating the entire Dance Band she’d hired for the New Year’s Eve party, I felt a particularly warm glow suffuse my very depths. 

I practically purred into the phone as I assured the poor dear at the other end that I would ride like the Light Brigade to the rescue by providing the very best entertainment a New Year’s Eve party could possibly have, including a special guest of such star quality that her party would be the talk of Worcestershire for generations to come. I didn’t know exactly how Jeeves had pulled it off, but whatever exchange of goods, services or filthy lucre was required create the measles epidemic was certainly worth the relief I felt at no longer being pulled between two conflicting desires. 

“It might necessitate a few extra guests, but I’m sure you and Anatole can accommodate.”

“Oh dear…Bertie….,” she sighed in both relief and resignation, “Spink-Bottle?” 

@@@@@

Little did Aunt Dahlia know how crucial Gussie was to the success of the whole operation. In fact, it was some time later, and rather by accident that Jeeves revealed this to me during a jaunt in the Highlands, however time and discretion do not permit me to deliver that tale at length. Suffice to say that arranging for the Ragamuffins to not appear was a piece of cake compared to Gussie’s manful exertions to convince Mr. Coward to leave his beloved London for the trip to Market Snodsbury and spend the last night of the year consorting with the combination of Dahlia’s original guest list and the entirety of the Drones club, rather than the fleeting appearance at the Drones that he might have been contemplating.

It was as they say, a night to remember. Oddly enough, I recall virtually nothing. Of the party itself that is. Perhaps the combination of nerves prior to the event, the very best of the single malts residing in Tom Travers cellar and mysterious ingredients in Anatole’s New Year’s Trifle were more than even the strongest mental constitution could abide. 

What the old bean still retains are the sight of Mr. Coward giving Aunt Dahlia an impromptu interview for _Milady's Boudoir_ while quaffing a bit of the bubbly in the kitchen, far from Tom Travers’ money-counting eyes. Those two got on like the proverbial apartment ablaze and his presence in conjunction with a few of his lesser companions from the world of musical theatre made the night a stirring success, although I’m not sure it was completely necessary for Mr. Coward to wait until immediately after Miss Lillie brought down the house with her imitation of Gracie Fields to introduce my modest contribution to the evening’s entertainment.

Not that I gave much of a toss, thanks to trifle, single malt and the knowledge that Jeeves, although not immediately visible was somewhere present to hear me tickle the ivories of the Steinway in Aunt Dahlia’s parlour, a far grander instrument that the somewhat tinny stand-up that had resided in the Drones since Fluff was a kitten.

With Mr. Coward cueing me in and mouthing the exact words for me to follow, I acquitted myself admirably. I’m sure I saw Madelyn Bassett shedding copious tears, as was her wont on so many occasions. If there were no actual hearts flying out of her eyes, it was only due to the dryness of the winter air outdoors.

The last bit of the evening I can recall is both the most puzzling and despite the haziness of details, the most pleasurable. 

I do know that shortly after the obligatory group outpouring of Auld Lang Syne and a copious amount of the good old bubbly, I was taken for a fairly aggressive spin around the floor by Honoria Glossup. The formidable Honoria seemed reluctant to let go of my person, perhaps in the misapprehension that I’d over-indulged and might slip out of her clutches in the midst of Terpsichorian splendor. I would have taken umbrage at her underestimation of the Wooster fortitude had I not immediately noticed a certain feverish light-headedness come over me and the grip on my shoulder give way to the familiar firm touch of my man. Jeeves.

“I’ll take matters in hand from here. Ms. Glossop,” he stated in a tone that brooked no contradiction, even from the formidable Honoria.

“All right Jeeves. Whatever you think is best,” she replied, as though she had any say in the matter.

“Nighty, night, Honoria,” I might have attempted to say, but I don’t believe anything as distinguishable as words emerged from my mouth. It had been quite a day, not to mention quite a week.

I would have expected all the guest rooms at Brinkley Manor to be accounted for by the original group of invitees who would have made their way from all over the country for the gaiety of Aunt Dahlia’s party, but the room in the east wing that Jeeves led me to had clearly been prepared for my residence on the night in question. In other words, Dahlia knew I’d be there, with cause and need to spend the night, rather than make the trip back to Berkeley Square under my own steam. I knew this because I heard the rustle of my own silk pyjamas in the darkness and knew that Jeeves had taken care of everything, as promised, as always. 

Jeeves chose not to turn on a light, but rather proceeded to help me out of my celebratory garments and began the process of dressing me for slumber as he always did, with no need for illumination whatsoever. It occurred to me that tonight was no ordinary night. Saying goodbye to a whole year required more than just letting it slip away as easily as the cummerbund of my soup and fish fell to the floor.

“What ho, Jeeves,” I murmured, only to realise how close I was to his body and unclad in much of anything I now. I found myself supremely untroubled by any of these facts.

Rather than give his usual straightforward answer, I heard a soft hum of the tune I’d performed to such a nearly rapturous reception earlier in the evening.  
I crooned the words back to him:  
_I'll leave you never  
Love you forever  
All our past sorrow redeeming  
Try to make it true  
Say you love me too…_

The song and humming ended before the pyjamas could cover my desire.

Jeeves protective arms guided me down to the bed. To this day I don’t know or frankly care if I heard or imagined him whispering the words, “I do. Sir,” before his mouth was otherwise occupied with my own.

Much is lost to me after that. The darkness concealed whatever physical contact occurred beyond the meeting of our lips and tongues. I retain the scent of sandalwood soap, the strength of Jeeves’ arms around me, the protracted time we spent with bodies pressing against each other and the possibility that a climax occurred while my member was held firmly between Jeeve’s thighs. Nothing particularly untoward for a man and his valet, I’d reckon.

By the time I awoke in the morning, no trace of any such behavior existed. I was clad in unsoiled pyjamas and if I had any memories of the night’s, um, what was the word? Fromage? That couldn’t be right. No matter, the images were getting fainter in memory as hunger grew and it was emphatically time for breakfast.

Jeeves was at the ready, letting me know that Anatole was preparing Eggs Benedict if I wished to make an appearance at the communal table.

“Of what mind is Aunt Dahlia this morning?”

“Well pleased, I should say. The presence of Mr. Coward and Miss Lillie has crowned her reputation as the premier hostess.”

“Well that’s a relief. Are those musical chappies still lounging around our abode?”

“I’m told the last of them will be taking off before your return, although the larder may be a bit worse for wear.”

“Well worth it, Jeeves.. Masterful all the way around. I suppose I was hoping one of them might, well…I thought that if I had a…someone for further musical collaboration.”

I thought I caught the slightest hint of concern or disapproval flicker across his brow.

“Your performance last night…” There was a depth of emotion in his words that seemed out of proportion to merely singing the words and playing the notes, assuming that was what he referred to. I was moved and somewhat troubled by the feelings that played at the edges of his voice. “I wouldn’t wish to see any interference with your innate skill by a so-called professional.”

“Right ho, Jeeves.” I said briskly, turning the conversation back to more familiar and comfortable matters. “I shall bask in the glow of our success and take advantage of Anatole’s skill with the whisk.”

“Very good, Sir. And may I take this opportunity to wish you a most happy new year?”

“Yes, Jeeves. Indeed, you may.”

@@@@@@

A final note: 

Whether the slight finger sized discolourations I would later discover upon my biceps were the result of Honoria’s desperate grasp while dancing or Jeeves’ more desired attentions that night is a mystery that shall forever remain blissfully unanswered.


End file.
